


all this, and love too

by DrowningInStarlight



Category: Campaign (Podcast)
Genre: Asexuality, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Other, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sharing a Bed, ace!travis, demiace!gable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29087649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningInStarlight/pseuds/DrowningInStarlight
Summary: Two hundred years is a long time to know anyone, especially someone like Travis Matagot.
Relationships: Gable & Jonnit Kessler, Gable/Travis Matagot
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	all this, and love too

**Author's Note:**

> here's my nearly 6k of Feeling Things About Trable, enjoy!!! 
> 
> title from scheherazade by richard siken, sorry for stealing your brand nico <3

There are a lot of things that Gable doesn’t remember. 

The obvious, of course, are the memories that were taken from them, the memories they feel the absence of like an aching tooth. All the flashes of fire that haunt them when they try to sleep, always slipping just out of reach. But it isn’t only that. They forget other things, too, mortal things; the name of that drink they liked in a city seventy years past, what happened to an inn that used to be their favourite, the way they felt when they first saw a ship aloft in the sky, white and red like some angel of old. There’s no one else to remind them, either. No one else, except— 

One thing they don’t forget, as much as they might like to, is the fall. They suspect it’s part of their punishment, the way the memories are burned into their mind, the way there’s always a part of them still trying to flinch away from too many sensations hitting them too fast. The water, the sand, the noise, the pain— 

Then it’s all just washing up on the beach, and lying there for what felt like a very, very long time. Perhaps they never would have moved again, if it hadn’t been for Travis Matagot trying to loot their body. 

That’s the next thing that’s burned into their memory, but they can’t blame this one on the final cruelty of the divine. This one’s all them. They grab Travis by the throat and realise, all mixed up in shock and horror and wonder, that human beings are warm. 

Then they realise their lungs are full of seawater, and suddenly the burning is all they can think of all over again. 

— 

They meet Travis again, five years later, under the canopy of the Queen’s forest. He takes something from them that they aren’t sure they’re sad about losing, and then the Queen takes _him,_ and Gable leaves feeling unsure who won and who lost in the end. 

— 

Seven years later, and Gable thinks they’re getting quite good at this. They run from place to place, they hide their scars, they learn to keep back and look away whenever people look too closely. 

They learn they’re very, very good at violence. 

This town smells like the sea breeze, and Gable is tired. The bar is loud and rowdy, and it isn’t even noon but they want very badly to get drunk. There’s something wrong with this place. That’s something else they’ve picked up over the years, a sharp and bitter instinct for danger. They can’t quite put their finger on what the problem actually is here, but the chatter that surrounds them is oddly feverish. 

Every other day they’ve been in here, this bar has been empty, but today it’s bustling and they don’t like it. They’ve only been here a week, just stopping by to shelter from the spring storms, but even in that time, all they’ve heard about is the ship that the townspeople had been sent out months before.

“They’re supposed to be back any day now!” The barkeep had told them enthusiastically. “It’ll be the saving of this town if they make it home, it really will.” 

“Do you think they’ll make it?” Gable asks. 

The barkeep tilts their hand back and forth. “It’s hard to say. Nothing’s ever come back before, but… I’ve got a good feeling about this one.”

The ship had been sighted off the coast first thing that morning, and it had seemed like an absurdly small amount of time before it reached the little port and it’s crew were spilling out like ants. Now the tavern is full and Gable holds their drink tightly and tries to convince themselves that they aren’t struggling to breathe. 

“Oh, no fucking way,” a familiar voice says behind them, and Gable spins to look. Travis Matagot is staring at them, his arms crossed. 

“What are you doing here,” they say flatly. 

“Not even a hello?” he says. 

“You didn’t say hello to me!” 

“That’s because,” Travis says, leaning forward a little like he’s telling them a secret, “I hate you.” 

“Ugh.” Gable gestures to the barstool next to theirs, and he sits. The barkeep seems to have disappeared, so he just puts one elbow on the bar and looks at them. Gable looks back. He looks tireder than when Gable had last seen him, over the Illimat table of the Forest Queen. Much tireder. Gable wonders if they look the same to him. 

“You been here long?” he asks them. 

“Just a week or so. You?” 

“Literally half an hour ago. What’s going on here? Everyone seems… tense.” 

Gable sighs. They’d been vaguely hoping it was all in their head. “I’m not sure,” they admit. Behind them, a table of people burst into laughter, and there’s a hysterical note to it. Travis grimaces at the sound. 

They have to ask. The last time they’d seen Travis, there’d been a strange look in his eyes, deep and dark like a forest pool in summertime. It’s just another thing they’ve struggled to forget. Now he looks… ragged, somehow. Almost lost. “How have you… been?” 

Travis gives them a disparaging look. Another person would have asked _why do you care anyway?_ but in the handful of times they’ve met since the fall of the stars, it hadn’t taken them long to learn that asking that question is asking something more dangerous than either of them care to touch upon. Instead, he says “Oh, you know, doing my lady’s leafy bidding, the usual.” 

Gable rolls their eyes. “I was being serious.” 

“You were putting your big nose into my business.” 

“I was trying to be _friendly,_ but I guess next time I just won’t bother—” they snap, and Travis makes a mocking face, and suddenly it’s far too warm in here. 

Behind them, someone drops a glass, and it shatters on the paved floor. Gable jumps, and their panic response kicks in as they instinctively raise their hand as if to strike out at an attacker— and Travis flinches at their movement, hard. The world goes icy cold. 

They put their hands behind their back. “S— sorry.” 

It takes him a moment to look at them, but when he does there’s nothing but sullen defensiveness in his eyes. “Whatever,” he says. 

There’s a shout behind them, and the sound of another glass shattering, and Gable realises that it hadn’t been an accident, but the start of a fight. Someone knocks a chair back in their direction, and they duck out of the way and watch as Travis slips around the bar, presumably to find something to steal or something to drink now no one’s paying attention. 

He doesn’t look back, and they don’t wait for him to reappear. They push their way out of the tavern as the violence begins in earnest, and under the dull afternoon sky, they begin to follow the dirt track inland again. 

The only sound that follows them is the shrill cry of curlews. 

— 

They see him three or four times over the next ten years. Never for long, and never without a fight of some kind, but they see him. Travis makes them new drinks that are popular in some distant city, Gable convinces him to get into melort, and they get drunk together across tables in dingy pubs and they don’t talk. 

Then Gable makes a mistake and one thing leads to another and before they know it they’re in the grip of the Church once again and it’s too late. At first, they’re afraid, and then they’re lonely, and they wonder if Travis has noticed their absence from the underworlds they would co-inhabit together so angrily. Then they stop wondering about anything at all. 

— 

Escaping the prison in the frozen lands is a mad rush of adrenaline and blood and freedom. Gable stumbles out into the snow, and the sky is huge and a foreboding gray above, and for a moment they feel dizzy, like they’re about to fall into it.

“Where are we?” they breathe, their hands shaking a little. 

Travis comes up to their side, breathing hard, and manages “I don’t know, but I personally would rather find out than stay here.” 

“Yeah,” Gable says, then louder, trying to convince themself, “Yeah, let’s go.” 

Travis almost looks like he’s going to reach out and pull them along by the wrist, but he doesn’t, at the last second. Gable doesn’t know how they feel about that. They still have the bitter red welts around their wrists from the handcuffs, but Travis doesn’t, of course. 

It’s been so long since anyone touched them without intent to— to— hurt isn’t right. Hurt is too simple. People try to hurt Gable all the time, and they try and hurt them right back. But the cold fingers of the Church officials weren’t trying to hurt. 

That was almost the problem. They didn’t think that Gable was person enough to do something as human as hurt. 

Together, they manage to get a good distance from the prison before nightfall hits. Gable feels distant, detached from their body, just taking one step and then another until their skin goes numb with cold and it’s a relief because at least it doesn’t hurt anymore. 

Eventually they reach a forest belt cutting dark through the snow, the sounds of their footsteps muffled in the thick bed of needles carpeting the ground. It’s so bitterly, bitterly cold, even though darkness hasn’t fallen yet. 

Neither of them have said a word. 

Automatically, Gable goes to start gathering wood for a fire. It’s been years since they’ve done it, but it’s muscle memory, something they thought they’d lost to the mindless poison of the Church. Lighting a fire will give away their position, but if they’re entirely honest, they don’t think there are that many people left to look for them. It’s hazy in their mind, but they remember feeling the warmth of human beings for the first time in eight years and doing their best to hurt them until it faded.

Travis doesn’t help. He just sits there with his knees tucked up to his chest, back against a tree, his tattered old coat pulled around his shoulders miserably. His lips are blue. Gable’s cold, of course, but he’s clearly feeling it more than they are. 

After a moment, fire begins to crackle to life under their hands, and Travis leans forward towards the heat almost unconsciously. 

“This is worse,” he says dully. “Why is this worse.” 

“Because you’re freezing to death,” Gable tells him. “And it’s not worse. Don’t be such a baby.” 

“Freezing to death isn’t worse than not freezing to death?” His teeth are chattering. 

“What?” they say, sorting the last of the wood and coming to sit opposite him, the fire between them. Somehow, it feels safest that way. 

Part of them wants to reach out to him, to offer their arms and their warmth, but their stomach twists with fear at the thought. Another part of them knows that Travis would refuse, and yet another part that sounds uncomfortably like Nikolai Kosomo says that it doesn’t matter anyway, because everything they touch turns to ash. 

“Gable,” Travis says, and his voice is unexpectedly quiet. It makes them look up at him. The fire flickers and dances between them. 

“Yes?” they say, just as softly. The heavy tree cover absorbs their voices, every sound coming back muffled. There’s a very real chance they could die here, but Gable doesn’t regret it for an instant. 

“You could have escaped from there. Why didn’t you?” 

“I did, didn’t I?” they say listlessly. 

“You know that’s not what I mean. Why didn’t you escape from there earlier?” 

They swallow, and don’t say anything. 

“I’ve never seen you look like that before,” he whispers. He sounds weird, sleepy and distant. 

“Like… like what?” they say, almost not wanting to know the answer.

“Like you weren’t— like you’d forgotten how to be— you. How to be Gable.” 

A log crackles in the fire, and they both jump a little. 

“I—” Gable says, but in the end they can’t meet his eyes, and they don’t finish the sentence.

Later, just before the sun sets, Travis gets up shakily and Gable moves to put more wood on the fire, and their fingers brush, just for an instant, and they both freeze. Before either of them can speak, the sun finally touches the horizon, and Travis pales and excuses himself, and that’s that. 

They survive the night, barely, and part ways at the next town over. 

Simple as that. 

— 

There’s a period of time, after the prison, when they run into each other a lot, more than they ever have before. Gable spends their time trying to bury the memories of the cold, working as a farmhand in warm climates, and they never see Travis do work, of course, but he seems to drift towards the warmth too. For a while, they live in the same village, and he walks out to the fields to sit on the fence to watch them while they work, drinking local watered down beer from a jug. 

Everything is hot and dry here, dusty like one spark would be enough to set it alight. So different from that little clump of conifers in the tundra. They don’t talk about what happened, in the prison or in those woods after, but Gable can’t stop thinking about it every time they look at him. It’s hard to forget the way someone looked while you were freezing to death together, it turns out. 

“I think the farmer, what’s her name, likes you,” Travis says, and Gable looks up from the furrow they’re digging. 

“What?” 

“Julie… Juliana… what’s it?” 

“Julia,” Gable says. “You knew that.” 

“That’s the one. She likes you.” 

Gable doesn’t react. “Good, I want to keep this job.” 

“No,” Travis says scornfully. “I think she _likes_ you.” 

“How old are you? Twelve?” Gable jabs back, driving their spade into the soil again. They like farmwork. It’s hard, and tiring, turning their skin pink from exposure to the summer sunshine, but it makes them feel more settled in their body, like it actually belongs to them. It’s nice. _“Likes_ me.” 

They’re better at it now. Being a person. It took a while to get their hand back in, after fleeing the ice, but they like their life now. Like some of the other farmhands, they have a room above the farmhouse, whitewashed walls and exposed ceiling beams. The dust dances in the light from the skylight when the sunlight hits the house just right. They don’t know where Travis is staying, but he always seems to manage. 

They can’t stop thinking about what would happen now, if he asked them the question he’d had before, out in the snow. _Why didn’t you escape?_ Maybe they would tell him the truth. Maybe they would tell him their deepest, most secret fear. 

The scary thing is, they kind of want to. Just to see if that would finally break… this. This strange, familiar thing between them that perpetually teeters on some edge neither of them seem willing or able to address.

They step back to survey their work, and Travis offers them the jug. It’s getting late, and the sun is turning everything slow and syrupy, but it won’t set properly for a while yet. The evenings linger here. 

“Hey, Gable,” someone says, and they both turn to see one of the other farmworkers. Derrick. He lives in the room next door to Gable’s, and they like him, even if he does always manage to ask the awkward questions. “We’re heading up to the farmhouse. Gonna light that bonfire, get people up from the village. Bring your friend,” he says, nodding to Travis. Travis nods back, and mercifully holds his tongue. 

“Thanks for letting me know,” Gable says, and once he’s gone, casts a look at Travis. “Wanna come?” 

“Who am I to say no to free food,” Travis says, and Gable can’t help snorting because sometimes, he’s so predictable. 

They sit on the sun-warmed grass and bicker and eat, and eventually the sun begins to set, and Gable casts a discreet look at Travis and says in a low voice “Would you like to go upstairs?” 

It’s a genuine offer, but they’re almost surprised when Travis, soft under the last rays of the sun, says “Sure.” 

The lamps are lit inside the farmhouse, and it’s only once they’re in that Gable realises how dark it was getting outside. There are people milling around in the kitchen, and it’s Julia who calls out to them as they pass. 

“Hey, Gable!” she says brightly, and Gable stops, Travis coming to a halt behind them. 

“Hey,” they say, almost awkwardly. She’s achieved so much, even in this broken world of theirs, this woman. She’s protected her stretch of the river, she’s coordinated the efforts of everyone trying to grow crops in this harsh soil, she’s made a place that’s welcoming and friendly out of a barren, stony waste. She smiles at them. 

“Just wanted to thank you for your hard work these past few months,” she says. “We did it! We survived to see another summer!” 

“Oh, Gable thrives on hard work,” Travis speaks up, when it becomes clear Gable doesn’t know how to respond. “Tobias Moore, pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

Julia takes his hand to shake, and Gable is suddenly extremely glad that she doesn’t wear a watch. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you up here before,” she says. “I’m Julia.” 

“Oh, I know,” Travis says. “Gable’s told me all about you.” 

Julia laughs. “Good things, I hope.” 

Travis puts his hands in his pockets and smiles. It’s not his genuine smile, it’s his performance smile— Gable doesn’t remember when they learnt to tell the difference. “You never can tell with them.” 

“We’d better be going,” Gable says, and grabs Travis before he can say anything else. As they tug him up the stairs, they meet Derrick, who sees their hand on Travis’s upper arm and winks, as he passes. They give him a confused look as they reach the top of the creaking stairs to their little room. 

The weird thing about this, it turns out, is how natural it feels. They don’t expect Travis to flop onto their bed once he’s transformed, the coyote landing with a _flump_ and curling up in their sheets, but they don’t think twice about lying down next to him and blowing the lamp out. It’s late, it’s summer, they’re both tired and maybe a little tipsy. 

“Do you even need to sleep?” Travis says, muffled where his snout is pressed into the mattress. 

“Not really,” Gable mumbles. “But I like to.” 

“Hmm,” Travis says. “Same.” 

There’s silence for a beat, and Gable thinks maybe he’s fallen asleep, but then he says “You know people think we’re fucking, right.” 

_“Gross,”_ Gable splutters. 

“Yeah! _I’m_ not the one who thinks we’re fucking, take that up with your friends downstairs!” 

“They’re not my _friends,”_ Gable begins, before realising that they _are_ their friends, in fact, in a way. But it’s too late to take the words back, and they can feel Travis judging them in the way only another immortal could. Being caught out at not believing in your own make believe normalcy. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” 

“What doesn’t matter? The friends or the fucking?” They can’t see Travis in the dark, and coyote expressions are hard to read even if they could, but he sounds like he’s having entirely too much fun with this conversation. 

“Either! Both!” they say, reaching down blindly to try and swat his ears. Then, a moment afterwards. “Do you?”

“Fuck, or have friends? The answer is clearly no to both. It’s entirely too much work.” 

“That seems about right,” Gable says cynically. 

“Oh, got opinions about how much I—” 

“Gross,” Gable reiterates. “I’m saying you don’t have any friends. Because you’re a rude little man and people dislike you.” 

“And you’re— you’re a rude, big— idiot.” 

Gable laughs at him nastily, and they feel him headbutt their calf in the dark. 

“You?” he asks, then before they can say a word, “Fucking, not friends, you dummy.” 

They shrug, then remember it’s dark and he probably isn’t looking at them anyway. “Not really. If I know someone well, sometimes.”

“So let me get this straight. You’re telling me, after the conversation that we just had, that you only fuck friends? How could you do this to me.” 

Gable laughs, louder than they intend. People in other parts of the house can definitely hear them. “I live to annoy you, Travis.” 

“You certainly do. I’m going to sleep. Don’t kick me with your big stupid feet.” 

“Don’t sleep on my legs, then.” 

“You can’t stop me,” Travis says, and Gable is surprised to discover that they wouldn’t want to anyway. 

They don’t realise that they fell asleep until there’s a loud knocking at their door. They sit bolt upright, survival instincts kicking in at once. Travis is still curled up, a too warm weight on their legs, but he sits up as they do. He’s still a coyote— it’s still dark. 

The air smells like smoke. 

The banging comes again, and Gable stumbles out of bed. “Who’s there?” they say as they wrench the door open, because they are not so naive as to say _come in._

“Gable!” It’s Derrick, and he’s sweaty, his hands shaking. “Thank the Slain God—” 

“What’s going on?” they ask, apprehension building in their stomach. Travis pads forwards and winds around their legs, and Derrick jumps back with a cry. 

“What the fuck is a wolf doing in here?” 

“He’s not a wolf, he’s a coyote,” Gable says, before Travis can even _think_ about speaking up. “Don’t worry about him, he’s my pet, what’s happening?” 

“Since when have you had a coyote as a pet?” Derrick says, sounding like this is the final straw tipping him into completely losing it. 

“Over one hundred years,” Gable says wearily. “I said don’t worry about him, what’s _happening?”_

“It’s the bird stables,” he says, unable to tear his eyes away from Travis. “And the barn, and it’s spreading to the—” 

Travis turns away from Derrick and nudges Gable’s leg with his nose. “Fire,” he says in a low voice, and Gable follows his gaze out of the landing window. The wind is carrying the sound of shouting and the crackle of flames. 

They nod sharply at Derrick. “I’m on my way.” 

He nods back, and begins to move along the hallway, knocking at the other doors. Gable looks down at Travis, he looks back at them, and as one they start running. 

They burst out into the farmyard, and immediately Gable inhales a lungful of smoke and starts coughing. They pull the collar of their shirt up over their nose and peer into the night. The fire is obvious immediately, lashing up the walls of the barn and stables, lighting up the sky a horrible orange. 

They’re about to run towards the fire, when Travis stops them. “Wait,” he says, the smoke already beginning to turn his fur a sooty grey. 

“What?” 

“You _know,”_ he says. “They’re going to blame you.” 

“What?” 

“Gable,” he says urgently. “You’re the newcomer with a mysterious past, who keeps meeting up with another mysterious stranger— me— and everyone sees us together. And now that guy’s seen you with me, your _coyote pet that you’ve had for a hundred years.”_ His voice drips with sarcasm. 

“But I— didn’t,” Gable says slowly. 

He makes a frustrated noise. “Since when has that mattered! They’re angry, scared, and _mortal.”_

He’s right. Gable knows, heavy in their stomach, that no matter what happens, they’re never going to get their old life back now. But there are still people shouting and birds screaming and they can’t turn away, they can’t, they can’t, they can’t. Maybe it’s an angel thing, or maybe it’s just a Gable thing. They don’t know how to tell anymore. 

They don’t say it, but Travis clearly sees it on their face. He shakes his head. “You’re an idiot,” he says, and just like that he turns and disappears into the smoke. 

Gable doesn’t wait to watch him go. 

— 

They don’t see him for a very long time after that. 

— 

If there’s one thing Gable knows about Travis, it’s the kind of places that he spends his time. So when they’re given an especially vindictive bounty and recognise the alias on it, they make an immediate beeline to the inn. That’s always a safe bet with Travis, but especially in this place. This village is under the protection of the Forest Queen. It’s precisely because of that that they’re shocked by how wrecked Travis looks when he stumbles across the threshold, blood dripping from his hand and looking like he’s a good way along the road to starved. 

They probably shouldn’t be surprised. They know Travis isn’t very good at trusting things that are kind to him. Maybe it’s because of that, or maybe it’s because of… something else, something suspiciously like friendship, but they tell him about the skyship coming through town, and then they eat fish together and Travis finally regains some colour in his cheeks. 

“Do _you_ have somewhere to stay?” he asks, once he seems to have eaten his fill. “And don’t say a pocket.” 

Gable shakes their head. “I was gonna…” 

“Walk the streets and brood?” Travis asks. “You haven’t changed.” 

“Is that an insult or a compliment?” 

“An insult. You started off bad,” he says, but it’s so clearly an act of habit that Gable can’t help just laughing. 

They sign on to the Uhuru together— Well, that’s not true. Gable signs on, Travis sneaks on afterwards, and then, not very long afterwards, they go on a mission to a certain island and things get… interesting. 

— 

Burza Nyth is... well. Gable is trying very hard not to think about it too closely. Revenge is easy, a simple, bitter warmth that is only too familiar, and they keep it close. Then Jonnit and Travis come home covered in blood and in varying stages of almost dead, and they’re suddenly very, very aware of mortality all over again. They tuck Jonnit into bed, and keep Travis awake for as long as they can, wrapping him up and carrying the raven in their arms like a fragile thing. He tells them all kinds of stuff that they’re sure he doesn’t mean to, but he’s always been like that. This is, despite all Travis’s knack for escaping situations physically unscathed, not new territory. 

Eventually, they get tired of pacing the room, and they sit on the edge of the bed. Jonnit scoots over sleepily to make room, and they place bird Travis on the pillow between them. He doesn’t make any attempt to move, seeming entirely content to be manoeuvred however they wish. 

Their hands have always been too clumsy for this. They’re a fighter, not a healer. They destroy and they protect and they avenge, they don’t help— they don’t fix things— Travis always seems unbreakable until he gets broken. 

“Hey,” they say. 

“Hey,” he says back, small and bloody. 

“Don’t you fucking dare die.” 

“Don’t tell me what to die. To do. What?” 

They reach out to pet him, and he doesn’t even try and peck them. He just lies there and lets them stroke his beak. 

“Gable,” Jonnit says, looking just as small as the bird in the huge bed. “We’re gonna be okay.” 

He doesn’t phrase it like a question, but Gable can hear the uncertainty he’s trying to hide. 

“We’re gonna be okay,” they whisper. 

— 

Travis kisses them, in Nordia, in the rainstorm. It feels like they’ve finally stepped off the edge into the precipice that they’ve been sitting on the lip of together ever since they first met each other, but somewhere between sitting down and stepping off, Gable learnt to fly. 

Maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe they just love each other, with all the mess that entails. 

— 

After the Grandfire, things are… strange. 

This time, Gable doesn’t run. It’s still a tempting instinct, even after all this time, but they don’t follow it. They hold their head up high and do their work, and pretend they don’t hear people whispering. People avoid their eyes. Not everyone— Jane nods proudly to them when they pass in hallways. Wasp gives them a knowing smile. Nodoze offers them the first pick of rope, and they smoke together in warm silence. 

Jonnit, of course, stays staunchly by their side. He’s deliberate and endearing in showing his affection, like he’s worried they might think he doesn’t love them. He gets them to give him a leg up into the lines, he shows them cool things he finds in the captain’s quarters, he falls asleep in the aviary so trustingly while they’re cleaning out the birds late at night. They aren’t running away anymore, but it still isn’t easy. Jonnit makes it easier. 

Then there’s Travis, still recovering from his… unfortunate haircut. Nodoze refuses to speak to him, and Gable would think the whole situation was the funniest thing that’s ever happened if they didn’t feel a tiny bit responsible. 

It’s still pretty funny, and if anyone’s allowed to laugh at Travis they’re pretty sure it’s them, but. Still. 

Travis is human at night now, and that’s weird too. They aren’t used to seeing him by candle light. They don’t think he’s used to it, either— he wanders at night, conspicuously enough that the rest of the crew start to notice. Travis is not popular with the rest of the crew. Gable’s known him long enough to know that it’ll pass, but sometimes they catch his eye and he looks almost… lost. 

One night, they end up on lookout shift together, up in the crow’s nest. They’re in the middle of the open sky, so really it’s just a formality, there’s nothing out here except clouds. Travis sits with his back against the mast, and Gable lies down and closes their eyes, their head in his lap. 

They’re so tired. Travis plays with their hair, and they know he’s going to have done something weird to it when they next get a chance to look in the mirror, but right now they’re too tired to care. 

They’re almost asleep when Travis’s hands fall still. “You killed my parents,” he says. 

“Probably,” Gable says dully, even though it was a statement, not a question. “Who didn’t I kill. I don’t remember.” 

He doesn’t answer, completely still. They open their eyes to look up at him. He’s not looking at them, he’s just starting at the horizon, still dark. But he doesn’t take his hands out of their hair. 

“I don’t remember it enough to regret it,” they say. 

“I dream about him, you know. That child.” His voice is flat, detached. “I dream about that fire. I never realised it was you, until now, but I recognised—”

“Me. You can say it was me.” 

“I was going to say Uriel,” he says. 

Gable breathes out, slowly. “No,” they say. “Well, yes— It’s not as simple as that. Especially not… now.” 

“It’s not that simple for me, either,” Travis says. “Sometimes I feel like I killed that child. Like I had to, to survive. No one saved him and I’m not even sure if he deserved to be saved.” 

“He did,” Gable blurts, an instinct so true they can’t help but voice it. There’s silence, as they realise what they said. “Sorry. I’m trying not to do— that. The whole… judgement thing.” 

Travis laughs, a little sarcastically, a little sadly. “What did they do to you, Gable.” 

“I don’t know,” they say. “Travis, I can’t— I can’t apologise. For your— I—” 

He just shakes his head. “I hated my parents, and they hated me. It was always going to be one of us. I guess I just don’t… You don’t remember, but. Why was it them? Why not…” 

Gable tips their head back in his lap and looks up at the starless sky. “Hundreds of angels were cast out for my crime,” they say. “And most of them were… death would be a mercy. They didn’t deserve that. It’s not the same, you were a _child._ But I get it.” 

“You were a victim,” Travis says. 

“Was I?” 

“You, or someone else. I know you, Gable. I’ve known you for _far_ too long. You’re too…” he waves a hand vaguely in the air. “Too obsessed with being a saviour. You wouldn’t have done something like that for no reason.” 

“You didn’t know… who I was.” 

“Like you said,” he says. “It’s not as simple as that.” 

“No,” they sigh. “It never is.” 

He starts playing with their hair again. “Just. When you find all your feathers, don’t go off and…” 

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but he doesn’t need to. Gable can hear _don’t leave me_ loud and clear. 

“I don’t know if I’ll have a choice,” they admit, and it’s a fear they’ve never admitted outloud before. It hangs between them in the air. “What if that’s who I really am? Why would you want—” 

“I can’t believe you’re making me say this,” he says. “But I don’t care. I just want my big, dumb, godkiller, righteous murderer, irritating, stupid—” 

“Okay,” Gable mutters, “I get it.” 

“— friend,” he finishes, and they look at him in surprise. 

“Well,” they say softly. “You’ve got me, so.” 

“So,” Travis agrees. The ship rocks gently as they move through the clear sky. The two of them sit quietly, lit only by the light of the morning star, shining bright, guiding lost ones home.


End file.
